Page 128 of Dangerous Beginnings

And somehow, I know, this isn’t the end.

It’s only the beginning.

A dangerous Beginning.

Chapter 67

A Dangerous Beginning

Aslanov

The cell is a tomb.

Four walls of damp, unyielding concrete press in on me, the silence punctuated only by the faint hum of a light above—a pathetic excuse for illumination. The beam is narrow, cutting through the heavy darkness like a knife, spilling over the jagged cracks in the floor. It’s the only thing I see when I open my eyes, not that it offers much comfort.

The air reeks of mildew and sweat, and the cold bites deep, coiling around my bones. My body aches—a symphony of bruises and cracked ribs, souvenirs from the interrogations. My lips are split, and my left eye is swollen shut, but I don’t care. Pain is familiar. Pain is survival.

I’m shackled to the farthest corner, the rusted chain scraping against the concrete every time I move. A hard concrete slab serves as my bed, the hole in the corner, my toilet. It’s as if they designed this place not to hold me, but to erase me.

But they don’t know me.

I’ve lived in darkness before. I’ve thrived in it.

The interrogators come and go like waves breaking against a cliff. Their questions are relentless, their methods brutal. Names, dates, operations—they want it all. They want to tear me apart, to strip me down to a ghost of myself.

I give them nothing.

I sit in silence as they scream and snarl, as their fists rain down, as their tools draw blood. My lips stay sealed, my mind a fortress. Because this isn’t about me. It was never about me.

No, my silence isn’t about preserving my kingdom. It’s about finding the one who lit the match, the one who betrayed me. The one who dared to contact the police, to set this all into motion. Someone spoke out of turn, someone turned their back, and when I get out of here—and I will get out—I’ll find them.

Someone wanted me in this cage. Someone thought they could use her against me. I’ll make them regret it. I’ll make them wish they’d stayed in the dark where I couldn’t see them.

I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the wall, letting the faint buzz of the light above lull me into a shallow, fractured sort of peace. But peace is a lie, isn’t it? I traded that for her.

Isabella Marie Brown.

Her name claws at my chest, a dull ache that never fades. It shouldn’t hurt this much. I spent years building myself into something untouchable, carving out the soft parts of me until there was nothing left to wound. Or so I thought.

But then she came, with her fire and her defiance, slipping past my defenses like a blade between the ribs. She was never supposed to mean anything to me.

And yet, when the time came to let her fall, to save myself and walk away, I couldn’t do it.

I hear her voice in my head sometimes, the way it broke when she screamed my name as they dragged me away. I see her eyes—wide, tear-filled, and accusing. She didn’t understand. How could she? I never gave her the words, the truth of what she meant to me. I didn’t know how.

I shifted in the chains, the sound grating. The cuffs bite into my wrists, the raw skin cracking, and bleeding. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does, except knowing she’s out there. Safe.

That’s why I stayed. Why I surrendered.

Why I let them take me.

They think they’ve won, that they’ve caged a monster. They don’t realize I’m still in control. They don’t know that everymoment I spend in this hell is a choice. I could have run. I could have vanished into the shadows, left her to fend for herself. But I couldn’t. Not when the price of her freedom was my surrender.

Sacrifice.

The word tastes foreign on my tongue, even in thought. I’ve killed for less. Burned entire empires to the ground for the sake of power, vengeance, and survival. Sacrifice was never in my nature. Until her.

I open my one good eye, staring at the sliver of light above me. I wonder if she knows. If she understands that every bruise, every broken bone, every sleepless hour in this cell—it’s all for her.

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